Visitations
by Nana-41175
Summary: Vampire AU. Dr. John Watson had always considered himself as one of the nameless many who comprised the human herd. He'd never thought of himself as special, he was gifted with no particular talent and he never stood out. All his life, he had never been exemplary, and his anonymity had been a blessing. That was all history now. Vampire!Sherlock/John. Chapter two posted.
1. Chapter 1

**Visitations**

_A BBC Sherlock Vampire AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 1**

* * *

**Special Thanks**: To **wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up)** for her extraordinary patience, her excellent beta and all-around awesomeness.

**Dedication:** To **Reapersun**, who draws the most delectable Vampire!Johnlock. And to **PlumpPushu**, my French translator extraordinaire, who got me started again on BL (boy's love) manga after a very long hiatus.

* * *

**Author's notes:** Hi everyone! Welcome to another vamp!lock fic. This story project is not related to my other vampire!Sherlock fic, **Possession**, and in the beginning, this was only supposed to be a ficlet, inspired by Reapersun's ravishing vamp!lock illustrations, shown here and here. However, as I have quickly come to realize of my projects, this story has developed a life of its own while I was writing it, and will probably stretch to 3-4 chapters. I will need to warn you of several trigger factors: **dom-sub** and **consent issues** galore. There is a heavy element of **dub-con, **perhaps even future** non-con,** in the story. There will be scenes of **forced seduction** and **bloodplay**, along with **master-servant** themes. If you are squeamish of a dominant, possessive and vampiric Sherlock, then this story is not your cup of tea and I would advise you not to proceed.

All things said, if you're okay with the tags and the warnings, then I hope you will enjoy this story! Constructive comments are welcome as always.

More author's notes at the end.

* * *

**Background:** The theme of a vampire elite ruling over mankind is nothing new, and has been the subject of numerous movies, comics, fanfiction and fanart. When I was concocting the setting for this story, what came vividly to mind was the movie **Underworld** and Archia's vampire web comic, **Enthrall**.

In this story, vampires were human once, made super-human in a series of nuclear disasters combined with deadly viral outbreaks, all man-made. Yet over the centuries, they managed to salvage the situation and turned the world away from total annihilation. They made society functional again according to their laws. The price they extracted of their success: human servitude with varying degrees of favoritism. There were severe punishments awaiting anyone who broke the rigidly enforced rules, whether they were human or vampire. Contact between the two species was made along formal channels, except for visitations in "secret floors" where all inhibition may be cast aside.

Dr. John Watson had always considered himself as one of the nameless many who comprised the human herd. He'd never thought of himself as special, he was gifted with no particular talent and he never stood out. All his life, he had never been exemplary, and his anonymity had been a blessing.

That was all history now.

* * *

The first time Sherlock ever had him, the vampire asked John to sit on the huge, ornate bed, fully clothed. John watched, his heart in his throat, as Sherlock got down on his knees before him— all slow, unhurried grace— until he was there, kneeling between John's legs.

John would never forget how he looked— the careless sweep of those dark curls in sharp contrast with his white, porcelain features; deceptively fragile-looking, breakable. Most of all, John would never forget those eyes, the way they caught the light and shifted colors—bright aquamarine like clear seawater on a calm, sunny day one moment and the opaque, frigid gray of a raging, stormy ocean the next— all depending on their owner's mood.

And at that moment, Sherlock was hungry. There was no denying the keen, almost feral gaze that was focused exclusively on John, sending a shiver that was equal parts alarm and reluctant arousal through John's body. Yet Sherlock's movements were so slow, almost gentle, as he took John's hand to unbutton the cuff of his shirt at his wrist. Then, like a knight in a fairy tale, he raised John's hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on John's worn knuckles.

It was so entirely unexpected, so out of place here, in this setting. It was almost inappropriate. John's heart clenched at the feel of those cool, dry lips on his hand before that tender mouth moved on to lick at the pulse point on John's wrist.

They were getting down to business at last.

John steeled himself as Sherlock's long fingers closed more securely over his wrist. Not that he would ever pull away, or fight—John was not that stupid. It was too late for any of that.

Still, the feel of those sharp fangs piercing his skin made him jump and he almost jerked his hand away. A mere second, nothing more; nothing more than twin hypodermic needles embedding themselves in his flesh, John said to himself, over and over. This was nothing more than a blood donation— just the usual, bi-annual blood donation compulsory to all human subjects. It was nothing to get excited about.

He exhaled a quivering breath, forcing himself to remain still even as he felt goosebumps break out along his arm at the feel of Sherlock's tongue lapping gently against his bleeding wrist. His gaze skittered across the width of the opulent hotel room as he gradually calmed down. He heard a soft, suckling sound, and finally he looked down at the creature crouched before him.

John licked his lips, which had gone suddenly dry. Sherlock's eyes were flitted closed, the lines of his face soft with rapture as the vampire savored John's blood. John could feel his pulse quicken as he felt those full, silken lips fastened over his skin in a gentle sucking motion, vampire saliva mingling with human blood to thin it out and ensure a steady flow; he heard Sherlock's throat work as he pulled John's blood into his mouth and swallowed his nourishment. Once. Twice.

It was over in a minute, and John could not have lost more than 50 cc of blood, yet he felt strangely light-headed, his breathing erratic.

Sherlock lifted his head, and John felt a raw, tight sensation in his chest as he watched Sherlock lick away a drop of rosy fluid from the corner of his mouth. Catlike, he rose smoothly to his feet.

_This_, thought John as he steeled himself. _This is when he pounces._

"Here," Sherlock said instead, offering an immaculate handkerchief for John to press to the wound on his wrist. "They'll have some bandages ready for you in case you need them."

Upon hearing those words, John felt a wave of unreality wash through him. Was this really how these things went during these sessions? Sherlock had barely had the equivalent of an aperitif.

Not sure how he ought to respond, John said nothing. He waited, and watched, dumbfounded, as Sherlock turned and strolled away. He casually opened the door of the hotel room and let himself out. And that was that. Their introductory session was over in less than ten minutes. John could not believe it.

Outside, John's aftercare consisted of a plaster over his wrist and a glass of orange juice. Already, the bleeding had stopped, and there would be no need for antibiotics. There was no pain around the bite, just a mild, itching sensation. John knew that vampire saliva, apart from being an anticoagulant, was also an effective anesthetic.

"That was fast," said John, laughing rather uneasily and, when the attending nurse said nothing, continued in a rush, "is that really how things go the first time around?"

The nurse shrugged. "Maybe he's just not into your blood," she said.

"Oh." John frowned at himself as he realized he wasn't sure how to feel about that. He was, after all, past the usual age of preference.

"Don't call us. We'll call you if he needs you again," said one of the attendants manning the secret floor. No other explanation was given.

"Do you need a cab, sir?" the man asked politely as John continued to stand uncertainly before him.

John knew he was effectively dismissed, so he hurried home, his heart beating a painful tattoo against his chest.

It was January 6.

* * *

John got the call three days later. Rather, he got a text message— not from the secret floor people, but from _him._

_The Grand Royale. Come after work if convenient. - SH_

John was still digesting this piece of outlandish summons when his phone pinged again, heralding another incoming message.

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

Reading the peremptory texts, John could feel his mouth thin into an ominous line. There was no point in saying yes or no. He hardly thought he had any choice in the matter. As far as anyone was concerned, his new vampire master had summoned him after work. He could only hope that Sherlock Holmes would deal with him with the same kind of consideration he'd shown John during their first meeting.

After his shift in the clinic, John found a taxi to bring him to a well-known address downtown. It was usually one of the posh hotels or corporation high rises that could stash away a secret floor or two among their myriad levels without anyone being the wiser. Except, John suspected, everyone who was in on it— vampire or human— knew of the existence of these secret floors.

A clerk came up to him as soon as he entered the vast lobby of the five-star hotel. He glanced down his clothes: black leather jacket, rumpled checked shirt beneath said jacket, dark blue jeans— definitely not the usual dress code for an evening at the Grand Royale.

"Good evening," she said pleasantly. "Are you here for an affair, sir?"

John's mouth worked silently for a moment— her words had knocked him off-balance— before he cleared his throat and said, "Umm. I'm here to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"Ah," said the clerk without batting an eyelash, ever the professional hotelier. "This way, please, Dr. Watson."

She knew his name. _What the hell._

John followed the assistant silently up the lifts, his eyes settling on the numbers overhead that glowed every time they passed a certain floor. He didn't know why he bothered wondering which floor it might be. Every building that housed a secret floor would doubtless vary the level of that floor. Otherwise, why bother keeping it secret? John had yet to hear of a secret floor that was actually situated on the thirteenth level. That would have been too obvious, catering to deep-rooted human superstition that would have been quite meaningless to ruthlessly logical vampire minds.

The reason for the existence of secret floors was simple enough: vampires were very private and proprietary beasts. In a society with strictly enforced conventions governing vampire-human interactions (absolutely necessary to prevent all sorts of unfortunate accidents), it was simply bad form for vampires and humans to be seen openly cavorting for any reason other than work. Even then, vampires had favorites among their human subjects, and the manner of their interaction with these favorites was styled along a highly sophisticated set of rituals that involved courtship inside a closed, gilded cage— usually a hidden suite of comfortable rooms with very thick walls and doors far away from home.

Behind those doors, if rumors were to be believed, lay heaven or hell, depending on one's vampire. John had heard that some vampires would prefer to call themselves patrons while others would prefer to be called master.

Even among predators there were varying degrees of tolerance, different shades of character.

All his life, John had never had one— a vampire lord. He belonged to that section of the human herd which was deemed too ordinary, easily overlooked; important to the vampires only as a means of perpetuating the human species, their food. These ordinary people were free to go about their jobs and lives as proscribed by the ruling vampire elite, and so long as they kept out of trouble, they might as well be invisible.

John never thought of himself as special, he was gifted with no particular talent and he never stood out. All his life, he had never been exemplary, and his anonymity had been a blessing.

That was all history now.

John stared blankly at the floor numbers as they lit up one by one: twenty-five, twenty-six.

The lift stopped before they could get to the twenty seventh floor and the doors opened onto a wood-paneled corridor with thick, luxurious carpets. At that point, John could not be bothered to think about the nature of secret floors, or anything else for that matter. There were other things to think about, to worry about, now that he was to see Sherlock again.

How had John gotten into this mess?

This started a few weeks ago when he'd gotten a visitation. Everyone knew of these dreaded incidents, made by the smooth-faced underlings of the vampire overlords, always late at night or very early in the morning, when one was disheveled, physically and mentally, by sleep.

"Come with us," they had told John, and John had had no choice but to get dressed and follow.

_It's all a mistake_, he had thought all throughout that long, dark ride to wherever it was they planned to take him.

He would later learn that it had nothing to do with himself at all, and everything to do with Harry— Harry who, even now, lay in a hospital specializing in human diseases and addictions. Harry, who had committed the unthinkable: acute alcohol intoxication. She had been caught indulging in a restricted substance that polluted precious human blood. From her medical evaluation, it had been clear her addiction was several months old, at least.

John had been drilled endlessly: did he know of his sister's criminal activities? She had not obtained the substance legally. Did he know of her contacts, her suppliers? How had she slipped by her bi-annual compulsory blood exams unless she had cheated the examiners? She was John's own sister; it was hard to believe that he had not known any of this.

John's answer had been the same regardless of the questions: No. No. _No._ He'd not known of Harry's activities. They had not spoken to each other for almost a year. Was that so difficult for vampires to understand? Surely they had siblings of their own, the monsters.

It was this last bit, spoken at the heat of the moment in a stark interrogation room when John's defenses were at a low ebb, that sealed John's fate. Or so he thought. It didn't matter, because the outcome was inevitably the same. By allowing her body to deteriorate by means of alcohol, Harry had committed a grave crime. It was nothing short of sabotage in the eyes of the vampires who governed every aspect of human life.

Harry owed a debt to the tightly controlled society in which they lived, something that she would be unable to repay with her broken body and poisoned blood. Harry was now useless to the vampires, but John was not. He was clean. A debt was a debt: as Harry's nearest kin, it would have to be John who paid the price of her transgressions. Those were the rules. Even if they were not human, familial responsibility was something that vampires understood and took very seriously.

What was in store for him? John had wondered uneasily. Hard manual labor, no doubt. His residence card would be seized, he would be ousted from the City and his identity dissolved. He would have no bearing, no status; he would be nothing—just a pair of hands in a field, or worse, in the mines. He would be food, nothing more than cattle or livestock, forced to part with a pint of his blood every few weeks.

It was the end of a life already quite devoid of meaning.

Yet the verdict, when it came, was a total surprise for John: his residence and work status would not be revoked but he would be doing community service under the supervision of a vampire superior for as long as that superior deemed necessary.

"You've got someone looking out for you, eh, John Watson," the officer who had processed his papers said sourly, peering at John with baleful, red-rimmed eyes.

John could tell the officer had serious issues with the outcome of his case. From the way he sounded, it looked as though John had been given a holiday instead of the rightful punishment that involved banishment and near-starvation.

John could not explain it himself. He knew nobody who could pull these kinds of strings so high up in the ranks.

The officer had continued to survey him with malevolent spite. "Don't think you've been given a free pass though," he had advised John with a flash of canine teeth. "Community service— everybody knows what that means. Chances are you'd be spending the rest of your short, miserable life chained up on one of those secret floors and there's no telling what can happen inside those rooms. Put a foot wrong though, and it will be my pleasure to see you here again very soon."

John had known better than to take the bait. He merely gave the vampire officer an inscrutable look before he turned on his heel, his release papers in hand.

_Fucking vampires_, John had thought, fuming, as he collected the stuff they had emptied from his pockets and left. They had enough powers at their disposal already. They were not supposed to be able to read minds as well, which meant his thoughts had only been too transparent.

He would have to do something about that— especially now; now, when he had to dance attendance upon one of these fiends.

True to expectations, his first summons had come two weeks later: a rendezvous on a secret floor in a Mayfair hotel.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was trouble from the very start.

John had felt it the moment they met, when Sherlock had come through the door in his long dark coat and his cheekbones; his outstretched hand and his "Sherlock, please."

John felt it now as he walked into the tastefully furnished room at the Grand Royale to find Sherlock already there, waiting for him. John could not help but realize what a mouse must feel as it was ushered into the snake pit.

Trouble hung about Sherlock like an invisible cloak— it was all there in his slender, powerful figure encased in that well-tailored suit. his lithe stride, his unusual, beautiful face.

It was in his voice, deep-throated and gorgeous, as he said, "I've taken the liberty to order you some dinner tonight. I trust you've not eaten before coming over."

John was so surprised that it took him a moment to respond. He cleared his throat and muttered, "No. I haven't."

"What are you waiting for, then?" Sherlock murmured, pulling out a chair from a nearby table. "Sit. Eat."

It was only then that John noticed the table had been set for dinner for one.

_Obviously_, thought John, feeling annoyance and uneasiness spike within him at the prospect of eating in front of a vampire. It was a hideous thought, compounded by the realization that _he_ would be next on the menu, immediately after his dinner was over.

"Look, I'm not hungry," John suddenly said.

"Liar," Sherlock said softly, fixing John with a veiled gaze. "I can hear your stomach growling."

John shot a glance down at his quietly rumbling abdomen then back at Sherlock, who merely smiled.

"We can proceed without your having had anything, but I'd much prefer it if you had. Therefore, eat," said Sherlock. "I won't accompany you while you have your meal if that is what's bothering you."

True to his word, Sherlock left him to his dinner of roast beef and buttered mashed potatoes, served with hot soup and a side salad. Incidentally, roast beef was his favorite dish. He looked at the crystal goblet at his side: nothing but plain mineral water for him to drink.

"I would have ordered the veal fricassee with mushrooms, but I thought you're more of a meat-and-potatoes man," said Sherlock as he sat on one the rose chintz armchairs a few feet away in the living room. He was busy typing into his phone.

John stared at Sherlock's straight back, a thousand questions in his head, before he picked up the heavy silverware in front of him.

_I don't understand_, he thought amidst the panicked confusion in his mind that threatened to crowd out reason. _I _don't_ understand._

But hunger was hunger, and John finished his meal even if he could not remember tasting any of it. Soon, the plates were empty and John had no reason to be holding his fork and knife so tightly in his hands; he put the utensils down and got up gingerly from his chair.

Sherlock merely gave him a glance. "The bathroom, John," he said, still busy with his phone. "Clean yourself, and there is a dressing gown ready behind the door."

John could feel his fingernails biting deep into his palms as he fisted his hands. His mouth was clenched so tight that his jaw was beginning to ache. But short of flying to the door for a dramatic and futile escape, what could he do?

Brusquely, he turned away and went into the bathroom. He took his time with the shower and wasted several minutes more brushing his teeth. After combing back his short hair and putting on the dressing gown, he was left staring grimly at his reflection in the mirror.

How quickly would Sherlock dispose of the door if John were to lock himself inside the bathroom?

Another useless piece of melodrama. If he were to offend this vampire, where would he end up? He could already picture that vampire prison officer with the sharp grin, waiting gleefully for his return.

Perhaps infinitely more disturbing, John could not dismiss his own mixed feelings about Sherlock: how he'd not been able to get the vampire off his mind for the last three days and that little tincture of relief he'd felt when he had gotten the texted summons— proof that the first session had not been the unmitigated fiasco that he thought it was; proof that Sherlock wanted to see him again. Then, of course, there was pure, mindless panic at the thought that Sherlock was just on the other side of this bathroom door, waiting to devour him.

How long was he going to stay holed up inside this bathroom, tortured by his thoughts?

John started as Sherlock's voice sounded through the door: "Unless you've managed to drown yourself in the tub, John, I'd rather not be kept waiting."

John stared at his reflection for a moment longer, his mouth silently forming one word: _bastard._

There was nothing left to do but face Sherlock.

It was bed time. It was dinner time.

* * *

John emerged rather sheepishly from the bathroom to find Sherlock already lying on the king-sized bed, heaped with satin pillows and a dark silk coverlet. Sherlock had merely taken off his dark coat and jacket; he was still dressed in his burgundy shirt and trousers, his black stockinged feet crossed at the ankles. Lying there perfectly still and straight with his eyes closed and his hands joined under his chin as if in prayer, He could have been mistaken for dead, or asleep.

Of course he was neither.

"Come join me on the bed, John; it's very comfortable," he said without opening his eyes. He must have sensed John hovering uncertainly at the foot of the bed.

John sighed and perched himself gingerly on the edge of the bed. "Look. Why the need for this getup?" He indicated himself in the robe.

Sherlock opened his eyes a fraction and slanted John a sideways glance. "For geographical reasons," he said, and when John gave him a blank stare, he continued, "I need to take samples of you from different locations this time, not just from your wrist. I hope that's not a problem?"

John bit back his rising alarm and ground out, "I doubt if my opinion will make any difference."

"Precisely," said Sherlock, opening his eyes fully now and sitting up in a single fluid motion. "You might as well make yourself comfortable. The bed is the most logical place for the next phase of our experiment."

"Experiment?" John cried sharply, unable to believe his ears. "So, our last session—"

"Baseline reading, yes," said Sherlock, gazing at John with perfect nonchalance. "Problem?"

When John merely gaped at him, unable to say anything, Sherlock continued, "I am merely testing your blood taken during various situations. I need it for my work, you see. Three days ago was you, pre-prandial. I want to check now how you taste like after you've had a meal. Postprandial, if you will."

"You can just take my blood sugar reading. That will save you all the trouble," said John flatly.

"You know that's not the same as tasting your blood," argued Sherlock. "And there's more to it than just a change in your blood sugar. Lie down then, John. The sooner we get started, the sooner you can go home."

"So you…you're not going to take much, then?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not beyond what is necessary," he said. "I've fed before coming here so you need not worry."

John digested this with some doubt and a great deal of profound relief and, knowing he had no more arguments to throw at Sherlock, hesitantly did what he was told.

_Goodness_, he thought as his back hit the soft mattress. _It really does feel good._

He resisted the urge to burrow and stretch luxuriously.

There was laughter in Sherlock's voice as he said, "Relax, John. You're stiff as a board."

John stared at the ceiling in sudden fascination as he felt Sherlock undoing the belt of his robe. He could feel his face warming as he felt hands brushing aside the folds of terrycloth, exposing his body. The pounding of his heart was suddenly loud in his ears as he risked a glance down Sherlock's form, bent over him.

"Pants," murmured Sherlock, and that pale gaze slid up to John's face for a moment. "You have pants on. Really, John?"

"Well, this isn't _that _kind of experiment, is it?" John asked breathlessly, face growing hot.

To his credit, Sherlock was anything but coy. "No, this is not an experiment involving sex," he replied evenly, "although don't blame me if your underwear gets soiled."

"What?" Asked John, not comprehending. He lifted his head just in time to see Sherlock bend down to lick a hot, wet trail along the tender skin of his inner thigh, quite close to his clothed privates.

The groan flew past John's lips before he could stop himself. "Oh _God."_

He felt Sherlock's warm, moist breath against his sensitive skin for a moment, then that deep stinging sensation as Sherlock bit into his flesh. John bolted to sit upright with a shocked cry.

"Sshh…" Murmured Sherlock, one slender hand on John's chest, pushing him back down as Sherlock licked at the wound he had inflicted.

"Jesus!" said John, breathing harshly, as the faint, coppery scent of his blood registered for the first time.

Sherlock raised his head as he pressed a thumb firmly onto John's ruptured skin. "You taste…different," he breathed. "Better, here, compared to your wrist."

John said nothing, his ragged breathing speaking for itself, as he gazed helplessly at Sherlock.

"John."

John swallowed and croaked, "Yeah?"

"You're hard," said Sherlock, his gaze settling on John's tenting pants. His voice held an odd note of wonder.

_Oh shit!_ Thought John as he followed the direction of Sherlock's gaze. His white pants felt suddenly, uncomfortably tight.

_No wonder_, he thought, completely mortified, as he felt a quiver pass through him at the sight of his hardening flesh encased in thin cotton. He could already see a damp spot gathering there at the front, darkening the pristine fabric somewhat, the moist patch gradually spreading. He looked up to see Sherlock watching him and his arousal spiked a thousand fold, turning into something very much like actual need.

"You found that bite on the thigh arousing," said Sherlock.

"Reflex," panted John. As if Sherlock did not know. "It's nothing but a combination of anatomy and pure re— ohjesus_fucking_christ_—_!"

John let out a hoarse shout as he felt Sherlock's soft, moist mouth on his clothed erection. The touch of his pointed tongue was light, almost experimental, and yet the results were quite superlative: a spasm passed through John, his back arching involuntarily, head thrown back against the silk coverlet to reveal the full column of his throat as he bucked his hips up against Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock held off for a bit, staring at John intently as he drank in the scene before him. "Fascinating," he finally said, his voice a low growl, and John found himself fisting his hands into the sheets. He wanted to tell Sherlock to _wait,_ but instinct told him he ought to hold onto something tight instead.

Sherlock bent again to rake lightly over John with sharpened teeth and a questing tongue. A strangled sound escaped John's lips and his hands left the sheets to plunge into those dark curls, fingertips pressed hard against Sherlock's head, unconsciously guiding him, never letting him go.

Dimly, he heard Sherlock's voice: "You actually like this— like what I'm doing to you."

John squeezed his eyes shut, hair ruffling against crushed silk as he shook his head violently from side to side. Yes. No. He didn't know. He didn't _want_ to know.

He felt Sherlock spreading his legs, felt again that sting on his other thigh, but the sensation was quickly lost amidst the stronger wave of feeling that threatened to overwhelm him as he felt those cool, agile fingers caressing his throbbing prick.

"John…"

"Do it," John found himself saying through gritted teeth. "Do it do it _do it!"_

He felt strong fingers tearing aside his ruined pants, felt that tongue trailing up his length and those luscious lips finally wrapping around the head of his rigid cock, and John keened.

He tossed his head back, an obscene exclamation flying from his open mouth, his body undulating with naked abandon against the silken sheets as Sherlock took him more fully into his mouth, sucking and laving at him with a practiced tongue.

Somewhere at the back of his head, a voice was whispering things, half-formed, abstract ideas about resisting, pulling away, but the whisper was easily drowned by John's actual voice, high-pitched and broken as it groaned and muttered incoherently.

It was all too much, too quickly. Sherlock had only to slide his tongue insistently against the underside of John's thick, quivering shaft and the tortured pleasure suddenly peaked. John's orgasm crashed into him with a fullness, a thoroughness, he had never before experienced. It was so intense that for a moment, he was afraid he might black out.

He slowly came back to himself to find Sherlock's mouth on his thigh once more, lips sucking hard at John's flesh as he drank greedily. When he finally had his fill, he lifted his head to wipe at his mouth, leaving a crimson trail across his lips.

"Immediately postcoital. Of course," Sherlock murmured, almost to himself. "It makes sense."

John stared at Sherlock as though he had gone mad.

"Do you want me to call in the nurse?" Sherlock said, noting his gaze, the mess of body fluids on John's body: sweat admixed with semen and blood.

"Fucking hell," muttered John breathlessly, dazed. "I thought you said this doesn't involve sex...it _shouldn't_ involve—"

"I changed my mind," Sherlock cut in, voice deeper than John had ever heard it, edged with something dark and intoxicatingly sweet.

John's eyes flitted shut. All of a sudden he felt very tired. "Fuck you, Sherlock."

Sherlock sniggered. "And that's supposed to be a complaint?"

"Fuck," John could only repeat weakly.

There was speculative silence for a moment. "We should definitely try that in future," said Sherlock matter-of-factly. "Our session has been most instructive."

The vampire was already getting up, but before he did so, he laid a tender hand on John's trembling cheek.

"John," he said, his voice a heavy purr. "Delicious John. I never realized it before, but there is so much to look forward to, with you."

* * *

**Other notes**: The notion of the secret floor is lifted from the BL manga series by **Asagiri Yuu.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Visitations**

_A BBC Sherlock Vampire AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter ****2**

* * *

**Special thanks**: To **wearticounts (Sher_locked_up)** for her excellent beta, as always.

**Author's notes:** Please heed the tags and trigger warnings for heavy **dub-con** before proceeding. This fic is not for everyone as it deals with a lot of issues that some of you may find disturbing and uncomfortable, including themes of **submission** and servitude bordering on slavery as well as the peculiar state of mind attendant to these situations. The sexytimes at the end is directly inspired by **Reapersun's** amazing Vamp!lock art: reapersun-dot-tumblr-dot-com/ post/ 74595132516/ click-for-nsfw-vamplock-blood

Constructive reviews are welcome, as always. More author's notes at the end.

* * *

Most days, when the weather permitted, John cycled to work. When the weather turned truculent, he took the Underground. Not that the days mattered anymore to him. They were all one and the same now, whether fair or foul, rain or shine— vast, empty stretches of time; each hour stringing itself along to make up twenty-four in a day and the days melting together to form one long, monotonous blur.

During daytime, John did his job in the clinic, tending to his human patients, keeping busy enough not to think. However, the working days always ended at six in the evening and then he would find himself heading for home—a tiny, two-room flat that was more a bedsit than an actual apartment— to nights when sleep was a long time coming.

That was when the torture began, when John was alone with his thoughts. One by one the little, niggling memories would surface from the dark recesses of his mind to assail him: images of a rumpled hotel bed, and himself upon it. Memories of his naked, heaving body— bloody and dishevelled— a battleground where he'd lost himself to newly awakened and dark desires.

And then there was the vampire, standing by the bed; Sherlock, with his intense eyes and his beautiful, cruel mouth that had given John such unspeakable pleasure and had taken so much from him in return. Sherlock's face had been an expressionless mask as he studied John, who had to lie supine on the bed while the nurse attended to his wounds. John had watched as Sherlock shrugged into his coat and tied his scarf around his neck nonchalantly, his unearthly gaze never changing as he took in the look on John's face.

John had glared back at Sherlock then and willed himself not to look away first. Words of reproach would have been completely useless at this point, but John had thought them anyway as he stared at Sherlock: _Look at me. Look at what you've done to me._

Between the coolly professional nurse and the dispassionate creature standing before John, there had been no room for feelings such as shame or embarrassment. Those would come later, when he was alone and safe from prying eyes. In that little pocket of time, it had seemed vitally important that John should not be the one to look away first.

Yet there were distractions. Turning his attention briefly to the nurse as she asked him a question while placing a pressure pack over his bleeding thigh, John had not seen Sherlock take his leave. He was simply gone when John had turned his head back to look at him.

Afterward, John did not know how he had managed to fall asleep, but he did. Exhaustion had settled on him, fog-like, pressing down heavily upon his senses even while the nurse had bustled over him. The wounds had been deep, and for the first time, John had felt pain. He had been given a draught that must have contained a soporific, because he had drifted off not long afterward.

They had let him spend the night in that luxurious hotel room, and in the morning, had given him a lavish breakfast, as if it were ample compensation for what he'd gone through. A doctor had examined him, giving him prescriptions for antibiotics, iron pills and, strangely enough, sleeping pills, with nothing more than a cryptic remark of "You will need it," before sending him on his way— back to his everyday life, as if nothing had happened.

Still, before he'd gone, John had asked the unthinkable: "When?"

_When would he see Sherlock again?_

He'd not been able to stop himself, but at least he'd managed not to pose the awkward question on the secret floor people. He'd decided to ask the doctor, as a fellow physician, who would be in a better position to understand his query.

"He didn't take much, probably just around 250 cc," the doctor had told him matter-of-factly. "Still, we've advised him not make another visitation until after a month, at least. He wouldn't want to burn you out so quickly, and hopefully, the effects of the thrall will have lessened by then."

That was what John needed to know. It was what he needed for reassurance that what he was feeling for Sherlock was nothing more than a curious physical reaction elicited by vampires while feeding on their human victims.

It meant that he wasn't going crazy.

It was nothing more than feeling the thrall— that sense of shared need that bonded a vampire to his human subject. It was a strange phenomenon, well-known but difficult to define. For John, who had an alcoholic sister, it was easy enough to understand: it was a kind of addiction.

It was obsession. Since that last encounter, John had scoured the Net hungrily for any information he could find on Sherlock. He'd not been able to help himself. Incredibly enough, he'd come across a website called The Science of Deduction, and he'd scrolled through the scant pages in a frenzy of curiosity, growing more and more bewildered as he read the contents posted. Contrary to what he imagined of the vampire elite and their occupations, Sherlock was actually a detective of some sort, delving into crimes related to human beings. It was quite outrageous, and nothing that John had ever encountered before. He would have mistaken the Sherlock Holmes in the blog for someone else entirely had it not been for the brilliant but biting, sardonic language on display to ward off the casually curious and the anonymous hecklers.

Yet the worst thing about the thrall was the craving, starting deep in his belly and flaring down his loins whenever John thought of Sherlock, of the things Sherlock had done to him; of the things he'd want Sherlock to do to him the next time they met. Never mind that John was not into blokes and had never been with one before. Lying in bed late at night, his burning cheek pressed hard against his cold pillow as he worked himself to an urgent but temporary release, all John could ever think of were Sherlock's words: _Delicious John._ _There is so much to look forward to, with you._

Afterward, when his treacherous body was sated, guilt would set in, along with mortification and resentment.

_Fuck Sherlock_, John thought angrily and not for the first time.

He'd honestly believed that bastard when he'd said there would be no sex involved. He really did.

For maybe five minutes.

_Relax,_ he told himself as he breathed in and out, in and out, until he was much calmer. _There's nothing to get so worked up about._ _It's just the thrall…just the goddamned, fucking thrall… _

For a while, it helped immensely to think of things that way— to attribute all blame to the thrall. It helped to be able to rationalize and compartmentalize his thoughts and feelings and to dissociate them from himself before they drove him completely mad. Yet when John found himself coming back home late one night with a particular DVD in hand, he realized that perhaps he was deliberately going one step too far.

* * *

There was simply no way he could justify owning that DVD.

Vampire porn— rather, humans pretending to be vampires and doing ridiculous porn movies about them— were nothing new, and the Net was saturated with the rubbish. If John didn't know better, he would think the vampire elite actually encouraged it as a way of perpetuating their mystique among their human subjects.

But this DVD that John had obtained was no ordinary vampire porn. It contained the real deal— actual footage shot of whatever went on behind locked doors in a secret floor (or so the seller in the seedy sex shop assured him). Needless to say, this made its legality instantly suspect. John did not need anyone to tell him that a hefty sentence awaited him if he were caught with it.

Still, here he was, turning the damn thing over and over in his hands. He could not believe the lengths he'd gone to just to get it, yet got it he did; after all that embarrassed fumbling in the sex shop, with his real intentions half-cloaked in mumbled excuses, until the bloke manning the counter had broken in tersely, "Just tell me what you want, mate, and let's get on with it."

Now that he had the DVD though, John found that he could not bring himself to watch it. He'd gone as far as popping it into his laptop late one night, but there he stopped, staring at the newly opened program window with the play button patiently waiting to be clicked.

What awaited him in that video that he did not already know? Even more important, was it going to help at all when Sherlock made his next visit?

John stared at the program window again, at the still shot of a young man backed against the wall, cowering before his vampire master.

Had he barricaded himself behind the sofa first? John wondered. Did they play cat-and-mouse around the room before the poor bloke got cornered against that damned wall?

Did John really want to know the answers to those questions and more?

_Fuck this shit_, John thought as he slammed the cover of his laptop shut and edged away from the desk. He pinched the skin around the bridge of his nose as he felt the beginnings of a raging headache coming on.

He'd hardly slept in over two weeks. It was time he remedied that.

* * *

John sank gratefully into oblivion when the effects of the sleeping pill finally kicked in. There were dreams— fleeting, fantastical and half-formed, never to be remembered once John woke up. All except one: In the course of the night, John dreamed that Sherlock came to visit him.

He dreamed that he came briefly awake to feel something nestled firmly against his feet. It yielded a bit when John nudged at it with one foot and, finally peeling his eyes open enough so he could look down the length of his body, there was Sherlock, seated at the far end of the bed with his back against the wall.

He still had his coat on and he wasn't looking at John. His attention was diverted onto John's computer, open on his lap. For one surreal moment, John gazed at Sherlock; at the pale, angular face bathed in the eerie bluish white glow from the computer screen. He wasn't feeling anything— not fear nor surprise— which meant this was all a dream and he was still safely asleep.

"This is completely inaccurate," Sherlock muttered without taking his eyes off the laptop screen. John could hear a series of low, distressing moans emanating from his computer. "Where on earth did you even get this, John?"

"Doesn't matter," John heard himself mumble. "I've not watched it yet."

Sherlock lifted a sardonic brow. "Good," he said. "We wouldn't want any bias tainting our little experiment, would we?"

"Suppose not," John said faintly, his thoughts already drifting away.

"I want you to move in with me." Sherlock's voice sounded as though it came from a great distance.

John yawned, his vision already dimming. "This is all a dream. You're not even here, Sherlock," he muttered before he turned to burrow his head into the pillow.

When John came abruptly to his senses with eyes flaring wide open and his heart in the vicinity of his throat, it was already broad daylight outside his windows. His mind still swimming from that strange dream and the residual effects of the powerful sleeping medication, he threw back the blankets and lurched to his feet.

_Fuck_, he thought incoherently. _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

One wild glance around the room told him what he needed to know: Sherlock was not there and his laptop sat at its usual place on his writing desk, apparently undisturbed.

John let out a gusty sigh of relief. _Just a dream_, he told himself. _Nothing but a dream…_

That was before he emerged from his bedroom and saw the thing on his dining table.

* * *

John stared at the item on the small table for long minutes, feeling the hairs on his nape stand on end.

So it was no dream. Sherlock was really here last night. He'd paid John a visit and the entire incident with the laptop and the DVD was not a figment of John's dreams.

_Bloody hell…_

Sherlock had definitely been there the previous night and he'd seen the DVD, and John was never going to be able to argue his way out of this one. In fact, there was no way out, because Sherlock had apparently already decided that this was a thing they were going to do even before he had come to John's flat, uninvited.

John stared at the boxed item on the table and, turning away, marched out of the room. He opened the laptop in his bedroom, and of course, the DVD was gone from the drive.

_Bollocks_, thought John as he struggled to breathe.

What did Sherlock intend to do with it? Would he use it as additional leverage against John, to try to get him to cooperate in their future sessions? But that didn't make sense. Whether John liked it or not, he was now bound to Sherlock and coercion was not necessary. The vampire could easily destroy or discard him at a moment's whim.

There were so many questions without answers.

After a while, when John felt he could think and breathe easier, he came back into the living room and took the thing in hand, turning it around so he could read the instructions printed on one side of the box. There were words there, printed in bold letters— words such as COMFORTABLE, EASY TO USE, and EASY TO CLEAN.

If there was any proof that he now had a vampire lover, it was this.

Sherlock had thoughtfully left him a gift in preparation for their next meeting— a box with a muscular man on the cover and a label that read: _Anal Douche._

John could feel panic fluttering at the edges of his mind. He quashed it before it could take hold.

It wasn't easy, especially when John's phone suddenly pinged with a perfectly timed text message: _I trust you know how to use it, Doctor. -SH_

John gulped in a breath to steady himself before he typed: _"Where are you?"_

_Oh? Are you saying you'd like to meet now? Are you ready for our next rendezvous, then?_

John glanced around his tiny, nondescript living room with slitted eyes before he replied: _"You've placed hidden cameras around in my flat, is that it? You're tailing my every move now?"_

_I'm sure I don't know what you mean, John._

With the tip of his tongue set against his teeth, John typed carefully: _"You know exactly what I mean." _

_I don't have to be there to know you won't be able to look away once you've seen my little present— the same way I know you can't put me out of your mind._

_J_ohn bit down so hard on his tongue that he was sure he'd drawn blood. Oh, he could already picture Sherlock with that smug little tilt of his lips. It was a shame that John wasn't with him right now so that he could knock that smirk off his face. John glared at the tiny phone screen as he punched in: _"You narcissistic piece of _FUCK_—"_

Rage made his fingers clumsy. Before John could finish his invective-laden reply, Sherlock had texted the last word:_ Worry not. 14 February. The Chesterfield at 8 pm. Clean yourself at least an hour beforehand. See you then, John._

* * *

Of course, there was no question that John would heed Sherlock's summons. Even if his mind were to scream warnings at him, there was no stopping his body from feeling that sickly surge of lust that propelled him to his scheduled rendezvous with Sherlock at the Chesterfield on Valentine's Day.

At the appointed hour, John found himself standing in front of the hotel, looking up its imposing façade as he vacillated between entering or staying put outside. Until now he had not realized that he'd been waiting, seemingly endlessly, for this evening; for Sherlock.

John knew this was nothing but the thrall at work, yet it did not assuage the ghastly feeling of want coursing through him like a live current. The excitement roiling within him was a frightening, alien thing. Even the private humiliation of cleaning himself had not blunted the anticipation, so strong that John felt it as a force behind every step he took to get himself here.

This was what it meant to be enthralled to a vampire. Whether he wanted to or not, he was going to give and give until he was bled dry, until there was nothing left of himself.

_Run,_ a voice whispered in his mind, the first clear thought he'd had in weeks. _Run away while you still can!_

Obeying that simple command proved harder than expected. It took considerable effort for John to even turn away, and when he finally did so he found himself colliding against somebody behind him. For one confused moment, John's face was pressed hard against the dark, rough wool of a finely made coat. Then a gloved hand was on his back, pulling him away just enough so he could look up at the person he'd bumped into.

"Hullo, John," drawled Sherlock, lips twitching into a smile as he gazed down at John's slack-mouthed look of surprise. "I believe the hotel is the other way around."

The long fingers digging into John's back tightened their hold as he began to struggle in earnest, sending him flush against Sherlock's chest, hard as granite. "Hush now," Sherlock murmured into his ear. "We wouldn't want people to stare at us here, would we? There's no telling who might be watching."

Sherlock meant the CCTV cameras, of course. The damn things were posted all over the place and nothing in the streets ever went by unobserved. For an instant, John remembered the vampire prison officer with the baleful face, and he stopped struggling in Sherlock's arms.

"That's my good John," murmured Sherlock approvingly, one unyielding hand moving from John's waist to the small of his back as he propelled him towards the hotel entrance. "No more scenes until we reach our room, yes?"

"Why would you care if people might see us?" John snapped, bristling at the feel of the hand on his back; placed any lower and it may as well be cupping his arse.

"You will learn that it would be best not to attract the scrutiny of certain people out there." Sherlock's bored tone belied the gravity of his words, but John's attention was diverted as they stepped into the hotel's lavish interior. In honor of the occasion, there were red roses everywhere in the lobby, elaborately arranged in vases.

Again, it seemed as though they were expected. A liveried escort quickly appeared to usher them down the hall to a private lift. "We've prepared the Red Room, sir, for you and your date," the man announced deferentially.

John gaped at the man then at Sherlock, who merely gave a curt nod of acknowledgement at the escort's words. The words were out of John's mouth before he could think them through: "I'm not his date!"

Being the professional that he was, the escort made no sign that he heard John's retort, and proceeded smoothly ahead of them. Likewise, the regal haughtiness of Sherlock's expression did not change, even though John felt those fingers suddenly biting into his back in unmistakable warning. The short walk to the lifts was an ordeal for John, made all the worse as he was steered relentlessly on by Sherlock.

John was painfully conscious of people glancing their way as they walked across the lobby. He could picture them imagining him and Sherlock as a couple, out enjoying a romantic evening together on Valentine's Day. The hand on his back would certainly reinforce that image, never mind that it was exerting enough pressure to bruise.

Perhaps the onlookers even knew that this was a secret floor arrangement, and far from being repulsed, they would have taken this as a mark of high favor- no matter how ill-fated the union, there was a certain glamour in the sight of a vampire with his current human favourite.

_Well, they're not the ones who've got to part with some of their blood tonight_, John thought bitterly.

The lifts finally came into sight. John waited for its gold doors to close. Once they were alone in the lift, he tore himself away from Sherlock. "We're not a couple!" he hissed.

Stripping his gloves languidly from his hands, Sherlock said, "Yes, we are."

A hot flush suffused John's cheeks as he burned with arousal and resentment. There were things he wanted to say, to let fly at Sherlock, but the words tripped upon themselves and dissolved into a meaningless puddle in his mouth as he stared at Sherlock's profile. The vampire was not quite smiling, but the lines around his eyes were deeper than usual which suggested that he was quite amused.

_Fucking hell_, John thought, aghast. He was done for. They'd barely started for the evening and he was done for.

"Don't touch me," John said shortly, arms raised before him defensively as the lift stopped and opened onto the secret floor of the hotel, where another member of staff waited to take them to their room.

If there had been any chance of escape, it would have been for John to have never come to the rendezvous at all. That would have meant disobeying Sherlock, and that, needless to say, would have led to a great deal of unpleasantness. No matter how hard he ran, in the end, there was nowhere for him to go. John would be caught and sent straight to that prison centre to be processed, and he'd never come out of there alive.

The same way he would not survive Sherlock's prolonged visitations.

There was nothing else to be done, so John squared his shoulders as he stepped off the lift, chin held high. He walked with firm steps, hands clenching and unclenching by his sides as he followed their escort through the winding corridors and Sherlock, in turn, trailed after him.

It would appear that Valentine's Day was something of a big thing for vampires as well, what with their elaborate rituals of courtship and the feast of blood that awaited them at the end. John suppressed a small shudder of revulsion at the thought.

The door to their suite was opened for them and there was nothing for John to do but enter the room.

As with all secret floor suites, the Red Room was sumptuously furnished, if a trifle gaudy. From the antique wallpaper, floridly Victorian, to the plush sofas, everything was done up in shades the color of blood, as though the entire room were blushing with the memories of various deadly intimacies to which it had borne silent witness. There was no need for crimson roses here: the blooms in the ebony vases were lilies of a pure, sinless white. There was a real fire burning in the pale marble fireplace and a sparkling chandelier overhead.

John gave the room a thorough once-over before turning to Sherlock, brows raised.

"It was the only room available when I made the reservations a month ago," Sherlock replied, shrugging out of his coat and untying his scarf, "after going through five different establishments. God only knows why the hotels are all packed tonight."

Was this bastard fucking with him? John wondered.

"It's Valentine's Day," he pointed out and, when Sherlock stared at him blankly, continued incredulously, "you know? The day of hearts, love— that sort of thing?"

"Oh. You mean one of those nonsensical human customs," drawled Sherlock, his tone flat, "and one loaded with more sentiment than usual. Tedious."

John stared at him with pursed lips. Was this bloke for real?

Impossible as it would seem, Sherlock appeared to be genuinely ignorant of the holiday. Out of sheer perverse curiosity, John queried, "what did you think all the roses are for?"

Sherlock rolled his shoulders in a small, indolent shrug. "I thought it's a day for red roses."

John stared at him askance. "That's… just ridiculous."

"Can it be any more ridiculous than having a day for celebrating hearts?" countered Sherlock, scoffing.

"So you...you didn't set this up as some sort of date?" John asked hesitantly.

Here, Sherlock's gaze turned sly. "Why?" he asked. "Were you expecting to be wooed, John?"

John said nothing, merely gave him a withering look.

"I should have brought you flowers, damn," said Sherlock softly, and John knew he was being mocked.

"You really don't have to," John replied, lips stretched in a thin smile, "unless you want them shoved down your throat."

Fuck, that was absolutely the wrong thing to say. John did not know what possessed him to say it, but having accomplished the task, John willed himself to return Sherlock's gaze, enduring that pale scrutiny for endless seconds. Then, much to John's surprise, Sherlock gave a low, throaty chuckle.

"This is what I like about you, John," Sherlock said as he came slowly forward. "Others would have been mindless with terror by now, but not you. You're not a bit afraid of me, are you? Not since the first time I saw you in that hospital and most certainly not now. That's the thing that bothers you, doesn't it? The fact that you can look at me and not feel the same way as any ordinary human being in your situation might feel."

"I don't know what you're talking about," John bit out, his face suddenly as red as the room.

"Yes, you do," said Sherlock. "You love this as much as I do and this is what terrifies you. Not the thought of dying in my hands, but this. You've never felt more alive than when you're with me and you miss it every single moment we're apart. You missed me."

"I suppose arrogance is a trait inherent among your race," muttered John, tamping down hard on the cold dread that rose within him at the vampire's uncanny words. Apparently, either Sherlock was telepathic, or else he, John, was exceptionally easy to read.

"You wouldn't be wrong there," Sherlock agreed.

John shook his head as if to clear it. "No," he said. "This— this is nothing but the thrall. The doctor in the last hotel said—"

He stopped short as Sherlock let out a soft sigh of exasperation, accompanied by a brief eye roll.

"What?' demanded John, irked.

"That's the trouble with assumptions," Sherlock replied impatiently. "Never make the mistake of assuming anything without sufficient data."

When John merely gave him a blank stare, Sherlock continued, "The doctor saw you in the aftermath of our last encounter and _assumed_ immediately that we've… consummated our relationship."

John froze as the meaning of Sherlock's words sank in. "So…"

"So what you're feeling right now is not the thrall. Not yet, but soon," said Sherlock. "As soon as I've made you mine."

Close. So close. How had Sherlock got so close to him? John felt as though a net were closing in around him as the vampire murmured, "Have I got your full attention now, John?"

Once again, Sherlock's words did not make sense. They were like pieces of a puzzle that did not present a complete picture. Try as he might, John could not reason out Sherlock's words—not when he was so close. John could almost feel the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, so steady and calm against his own trembling frame.

"I must admit, I am flattered that you would have feelings of your own for me. How nice," Sherlock murmured, his voice a low purr. "Very well then. You may kiss me."

* * *

At those words, John wished he could say that his head had emptied itself of all thought. He wanted to say that the hunger he'd desperately tried to keep in check had simply overcome his defenses, surging heavily into his loins and in his head to obliterate all reason.

The truth, as always, was far more complicated, because Sherlock was right. John may have passed the better part of the previous month in a trance-like state while he ached with need and unfulfilled desire deep inside, but now he felt as though every fiber of his being had awakened from a deep freeze as he gazed at that beautiful, lethal mouth, obligingly lowered towards his own. Here in front of him stood the most dangerous being John could ever encounter and John _wanted_ him.

He wanted Sherlock— that much was terrifyingly obvious. John wanted him as he'd never wanted another in his entire life. For a moment, he imagined himself already devouring those full lips and he wondered how they must feel against his own.

_Soft,_ John thought, remembering the way those lips had touched his body the last time. They would be soft but firm, and wet— a perfect, wet ring of flesh as they encircled his cock...

A vestigial sense of self-preservation finally kicked in before his mind could veer further off course. John screwed his eyes shut as he remembered that scene in the DVD, frozen in time, of that young man cowering in front of his vampire master moments before he was taken.

Just as Sherlock promised John he would take him- own him.

Sherlock must have sensed John's struggle. John felt long arms winding themselves around him, and hands— inhumanly strong and hard, capable of breaking his neck in one, deft twist— restraining him.

Sherlock whispered, "Still so stubborn. Ah well, the night is young."

"That DVD," John suddenly asked, his voice a hard rasp. "There's something there that you don't want me to see."

"John, John," Sherlock said softly. "There is so much that you do not know about us. I'd like you to learn properly."

John started as he suddenly felt a hand trail down to touch him through his clothes.

"You see, you're ready for me already," Sherlock murmured, pleased, as he cupped his hand against John's erection, trapped in his jeans.

An involuntary sigh left John as he felt those fingers brush against him fleetingly. All thoughts of breaking away were rapidly deserting him, but John held himself rigidly against Sherlock's hold as he remembered yet again the image of that young man backed against the wall. No matter what happened, he would not run away, but neither would he let himself be harried into a corner by Sherlock.

John did not harbor any illusions. He knew he would have to give in sooner or later, and he'd decided it may as well be later. He'd make sure not to give Sherlock the satisfaction of him yielding too quickly.

He could feel Sherlock's lips by his ear: "You may hide your feelings from me, John, but your flesh has betrayed you. Almost from the very start, it has acknowledged me to be its rightful master."

Balling his hands into fists by his side, John fought to keep himself from reacting. It was not good that he had to bite back a groan of disappointment as he felt the pressure of those fingers lift from his groin.

Swallowing thickly, he looked down just in time to see those long, nimble fingers deftly unbuttoning his jeans and sliding the zipper down. This time, John could not hold back a strangled cry as those teasing fingers glided over his clothed erection once, twice, before slipping inside his briefs to take him out, to take him more fully in hand.

"Look at you, John," whispered Sherlock.

Much to John's mortification, he found that he could not look away at that slender hand on his cock; the things it did to him. He said nothing, merely balled his hands into tight fists by his sides as Sherlock caressed him, setting a languid pace that refused to quicken even as John felt the urgency build inside him.

John knew he ought to be horrified at himself for not actively resisting, but what good would that do? He was losing this fight in the subtlest of increments as his body gradually started to respond to Sherlock's skilled ministrations and he could feel the humiliation mixing with the strong pull of desire, but there wasn't enough of it. It would overwhelm him once the sex was over and he'd lost a quantity of his blood yet again to this monster, but right now, the mortification was nothing compared to the hunger that Sherlock had stoked to life within him.

John looked up to glare at Sherlock, conveying as much resentment in his gaze as he could. It was the least he could do. It was a mistake, he was quick to realize as he caught sight of Sherlock's face; the way he was looking at him as though he, John, were the most fascinating creature in the world.

"Marvellous John," Sherlock said, an odd note in his voice.

John watched, transfixed, as Sherlock's lips formed one word: "Strip."

When John hesitated, Sherlock added, voice hardening:_ "Now."_

Slowly, as though he were in a trance, John moved to obey Sherlock's command. It was impossible to focus on the task at hand, yet John felt the loss of Sherlock's touch keenly as that slender, white hand left his distended shaft to glide over his chest, newly bared.

John was hardly breathing as he felt Sherlock's exploration of his flesh, his movements leisurely but thorough. Gradually, that hand drifted to the thick starburst scar on John's left shoulder— a souvenir from his teenage years during the Troubles, those unprecedented episodes of rebellious violence in the City that were quickly suppressed, when John had been caught in the crossfire one fateful afternoon.

For a moment, John thought he ought to explain. He always had to, when he had his physical examinations done by different doctors who were not familiar with his history. Yet John did not see a query in Sherlock's eyes; merely that look of fascination intensified a hundred fold.

"You got in the way of that bullet to shield someone," Sherlock said in that startling way of his, as though he'd read John's mind yet again.

_Or perhaps he's researched me_, John thought bitterly. Either way, he decided he wouldn't explain and instead focused on undressing: a difficult task as his hands were shaking so much.

Sherlock's next question caught him by surprise: "Don't you even want to know how I know?"

There was something in Sherlock's voice— intense frustration, perhaps even anger— something momentous that again eluded comprehension.

It took a moment for John to respond. He finally shrugged and tried for nonchalance as he fell back to an automatic reply: "What does it matter?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, gaze narrowed.

_Something's changed_, John thought. He felt it and Sherlock knew it.

Here they were, standing face to face in the most pornographic of confrontations: Sherlock, still fully dressed and John, naked as the day he was born.

Yet something had _shifted_ between them_._

John wondered whether Sherlock might touch him again, but the vampire had other ideas. He turned abruptly and sat down on the plush, rose-red sofa.

"Straddle me."

It felt like a small eternity for John to get to the sofa. All the while, he could feel Sherlock's gaze upon him like a brand. His heart hammering wildly in his chest, John moved to straddle Sherlock's slender, powerful frame as the vampire pulled him into his arms. John folded his legs beneath himself gingerly as he settled into Sherlock's lap.

The entire position was awkward in the extreme but Sherlock didn't seem to mind. John shifted his weight uncomfortably. He could feel the hardness of Sherlock's cock underneath those expensive trousers, yet all Sherlock did was lean into John's neck as he breathed him in. John braced himself for the first bite.

It did not come. Instead, John felt Sherlock's hands gliding over his back. His touch was light, insidious, as it explored the texture of John's skin. John could feel Sherlock's breath against his collarbone, but there was no hint of teeth as Sherlock trailed his mouth leisurely down John's neck.

In an effort to stall, John licked his lips and said, "Don't you want me to bathe first?"

"There is no need for that this time," Sherlock murmured against his skin. "I want to learn your scent as it is. You smell so good, John, so ripe. Besides, I know you've cleansed yourself where it matters. Let's see if you've done a good job, Doctor."

John did not see Sherlock take out the bottle of lubricant in his pocket, but he heard the brief snap of the lid being opened. Sherlock did not waste time, and John had to breathe in deeply as he felt a finger, slick with lubricant, teasing his hole for a few seconds before sliding into his body without hesitation, without apology.

_Rectal exam_, he said to himself briefly, gaze averted, as he adjusted to that long digit gliding slowly, steadily, in and out of his body. He kept his hands fisted on the sofa behind Sherlock's head to steady himself.

Despite his bravado, John grunted aloud as he felt another finger joining the first. The peremptory fingers were anything but comfortable and he found himself making small, protesting noises.

Sherlock ignored him. "Touch yourself," he said.

John eyed him sourly, feeling too disgruntled to comply with Sherlock's command. The feel of those fingers inside him suddenly changed as Sherlock slowed down his strokes.

"Touch yourself, John," Sherlock crooned softly. "It's going to feel so good, trust me."

Oh god, he was right. John stifled a gasp as his fingers closed around his shaft, the light friction contrasting with the deep pressure of those fingers buried inside him.

John watched as Sherlock lowered his mouth to lick at the scar on his shoulder before nipping lightly at the hardened skin. John could feel himself break into gooseflesh.

"Delicious John. I want to see you take your pleasure," growled Sherlock before he took John's nipple into his mouth.

A low groan escaped John's lips as he tipped his head back, unthinkingly exposing his throat. His hand was moving quickly around his shaft now, speeding up his own rhythm even as he felt Sherlock's hand snaking up his throat, lightly encasing the slender column with his fingers to feel John's quickened pulse. Sensation swamped John and he refused to consider what he was doing and what it meant. Now was not the time to speculate how much this will cost him_. _

_Don't think,_ John reminded himself. _Just take what you can._

"Kiss me, John," he heard Sherlock say again.

Panting, John brought his gaze down on Sherlock as the vampire reclined with his head tossed back on the sofa, his curls wild and his eyes hungry. His mouth was open slightly, and John shook his head. No, he wouldn't be kissing him for now, but he did lift a tremulous hand to touch those lips, soft as velvet.

A rumbling growl of approval issued from Sherlock. He licked at John's fingers with the tip of his tongue and for a moment- just for one, tiny moment- John saw the fangs.

A chill went through him at the sight, but before he could react further, John felt Sherlock's fingers withdraw abruptly from his body. He felt hands upon him yet again, deftly turning him so that he was facing away from Sherlock.

"Sherlock-"

"You're ready," Sherlock said, and John realized that Sherlock meant to take him from behind.

"Sherlock, wait!"

Strong fingers held him bracingly. "Just remember to breathe, John."

There was no way John could prepare himself for the pain when the moment finally came— such a deep, burning pain lancing into him, as though he were being split in two. For a moment, his body rebelled, fighting to keep that shaft, so _huge_, from going any deeper, fighting to pull away, until John felt Sherlock's arms around him and his breath on his back.

"Breathe. Just relax."

Wincing, John took in huge gulps of air as he tried to let go of the pain. He felt Sherlock slide in to the hilt and his body slumped back against Sherlock. Together, they waited for long seconds as John's body gradually adjusted to Sherlock's length, so deep inside him.

"John."

"So big," John could not help but gasp.

"There's no turning back after this, John."

As if he had any choice in the matter, John wanted to tell him. Instead, he cried out as Sherlock started moving, as he began their savage little dance. Fucking would have been a sophisticated term for it. This was mating at its most primitive: John, spread out on Sherlock's lap as the vampire had his way with him initially with short thrusts, gradually lengthening to longer, fuller penetrations. The pain slowly gave way to a strange, perverse pleasure, unearthly and intense. It was like nothing John had ever felt before. Tears sprung, unbidden, in his eyes as the pained pleasure rose within him like a gigantic wave, ready to overwhelm him.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John from behind and began, impossibly, to thrust deeper. "My wonderful John," he whispered into John's ear as he ran his hands down John's heaving body, moist with sweat.

John cried out as he felt a hand wrap around his stiff, throbbing cock. The feel of that hand circling around him was perfect, setting off the same rhythm that he felt inside as Sherlock drove into him. With his hands hanging limp by his sides and his body resting fully on Sherlock, John began to let go at last. After just a few more strokes, he felt himself on the brink of the precipice.

_Please_, John thought, unable to voice it aloud. He felt the tears trickle down the sides of his face and he could not stop the moans that escaped his slack mouth. It was no longer his, this earthly body that he inhabited. It belonged to another.

"Come, John," said Sherlock, licking a hot, wet stripe up John's neck. "I want you to come for me."

Close. Indeed, he was so very close, yet John held off. He tipped his head further back against Sherlock's shoulder— an open invitation— and for a moment, he caught a glimpse of the white, immaculate ceiling and the stem of the chandelier encircled with an intricate pattern of delicate plaster roses.

_Sub rosa_, John thought dimly as the sight of those roses overhead triggered a distant memory for him, gleaned long ago from history books. He'd never tell anyone about this fatal passion he'd developed for Sherlock. Sherlock himself would never know. It would be John's secret, never to be uttered, locked away safely in his heart and never to be given any power over his person—

John's mind stopped working altogether as Sherlock suddenly bit down into his neck, hard.

He never remembered screaming though he thought he must have done so. All he remembered was coming; coming endlessly over Sherlock's hand as it stroked him to completion. He remembered shuddering in wild relief as the spasms overtook him. Cradled by Sherlock's body with his cock still buried inside him, John felt himself shatter into a million pieces. Blood ran in a single stream down his chest even as his come spurted out to coat Sherlock's fingers and spatter on his trousers, and still, he felt Sherlock's mouth, fastened greedily on his neck, drinking him in.

John slowly came back to find himself draped heavily over Sherlock.

"Don't move," Sherlock warned as he pressed two fingers into the bite on John's neck, and John felt the soreness spread as he shifted uneasily over his lover's lap. Sherlock had come, spending himself inside John just as he had lost himself in the throes of his violent orgasm. With their bodies sated, the aftermath lay before them— a messy, sticky reality.

John had never imagined defeat to feel like this. He felt Sherlock's arms tighten around him as he tucked John's head into his shoulder. For a moment, everything was quiet as their breathing slowed back to normal.

The wound on John's neck throbbed. Soon it was going to be quite painful.

"It's all right, John," murmured Sherlock, dispelling the fear and panic before they could take hold. "It's going to be all right."

_Liar_, thought John, though he wisely said nothing. John watched as Sherlock glided his fingers down that trail of crimson on his chest and lifted his hand to lick at his long, bloodied fingertips like a seasoned gourmand.

"Move in with me, John," Sherlock purred into John's ear.

He must be hearing things, John decided. Utterly exhausted and out of breath, he said, "You won't believe this, but I really don't want to die just yet. That was why you took away that DVD, didn't you? That bloke... he died in the end, didn't he?"

A note of impatience crept into Sherlock's tone. "You're not going to die."

John turned his head slightly so that he was looking at Sherlock in the eye. "I won't last a week with you," he said.

Sherlock replied, his voice perfectly calm, "Of course you will, if you will allow me to turn you."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** The theme of imprisonment in the **Red Room** is lifted from Charlotte Brönte's _Jane Eyre_.

The Latin phrase, **sub rosa**, literally "under the rose" is used to denote secrecy or confidentiality. The rose as a symbol of secrecy has an ancient history. In the Middle Ages, a rose suspended from the ceiling of a council chamber similarly pledged all present (those under the rose) to secrecy.

I find it curious that any mention of **anal douching** is left out of most slash fanfics. While it's not surprising as it's far from remotely sexy, nevertheless, its necessity cannot be underestimated. For those wanting to know more, here is an interesting (and funny) link: www-dot-bryanboy_le_superstar_fab/2007/03/douching_101_


	3. Chapter 3

**Visitations**

_A BBC Sherlock Vampire AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 3**

* * *

For the rest of his long, long life, John would look back on that night and remember only fragments of it— the delicate plaster roses on the elegant, white wedding cake of a ceiling and the antique crimson wallpaper making the hotel room look as though it were hemorrhaging around John. The red room triggered a distant memory for him, a piece of medical trivia fueling a crazed thought: _six liters._ An average, healthy adult human being possessed that amount of blood—just enough, actually, to paint the walls of a room this size.

John would recall that for one hysterical moment, he thought that he might actually giggle out loud at the thought, and that would have been so not good. How strange were the workings of the human mind and its infinite capacity for the absurd during the most extraordinary circumstances; and one must admit that having a vampire lover was one such circumstance.

_Sherlock. _

Most of all, he would remember Sherlock, seated beneath him and carrying on as though John weighed no more than a puppy on his lap. Sherlock, with his cock surging into John's body, his slender white hand around John's shaft and his mouth fastened to the side of John's throat, eager for the hot, rich nourishment that flowed in John's veins even as his fingers deftly coaxed John to orgasm.

In John's rapidly fragmenting mind, different sensations fused to form a new experience, never to be forgotten, of the deadly intimacy of it all: the heavy, musky scent of sex mingling with the sharp, coppery tang of blood as John's broken moans melted around the soft, hungry sounds of Sherlock feeding; the feel of the fabric of Sherlock's expensive suit sliding against the naked skin of his back, his thighs; the softness of Sherlock's curls brushing against his cheek contrasting with his sharp kisses.

John would remember feeling afraid, but what was a vampire courtship without fear, even terror? Yet fear would not be the reason behind John's sleepless nights. What worried him more was his own response to Sherlock's kisses and his hard, impaling flesh; how John could not get enough of him, and the fear only serving to bring an edge to what was already an abnormal attraction. He'd tried blaming it on the thrall, yet he'd felt this way about Sherlock from the start. Even at its height, the fear was not enough to drown out the pleasure that went hand in hand with the pain, blending to form an intense, unearthly ecstasy like nothing John had ever felt before. John would remember it as long as he lived, the feeling of coming alive and of breaking apart as he spilled into Sherlock's hand, striping white onto his fingers in contrast to the thin stream of red flowing down John's chest.

And afterward.

Afterward would always be a point of contention for John.

He supposed he must have fainted sometime after the bizarre post-coital conversation with Sherlock. Perhaps it was due to the blood loss. Whatever it was, it came as a small mercy that he would have no recollection of being carried to the bedroom and of the aftercare that followed. All he would remember were brief bouts of near-consciousness, like surfacing to the top of a deep, murky lake but never breaking through the water, before he awoke fully to find himself groggy and stiff, as though he had not moved an inch in his sleep, in a grey and empty- albeit lavish- hotel bedroom. As always, Sherlock was gone. To top it all off, John had missed two days of work and was sent off with a sore arse and a wildly throbbing neck that was heavily bandaged, with the attending doctor saying something to the effect that John had been lucky enough not to need stitches, though he would be taking quite a lot of prescription meds. And that was all.

Yet these incidents were not the worst of it.

The worst was to come in the days ahead, when John would think of Sherlock and feel the base craving that had taken root deep within him uncoil and tear at his resolve. The desire was overpowering, rampaging through his body and running through his bloodstream like a ribbon of fire. He thought he knew the feeling, but he was wrong. Nothing could describe the intensity of the real thing. To be enthralled to a vampire was to endure being devoured, body and soul, one part at a time. It was a kind of possession that gradually stole one's reason and ultimately oneself. It was beginning already, for at the back of his mind, John could sense Sherlock taking up residence, whispering to him in that voice, darkly seductive and sweetly promising: _"It's alright, John__, everything's going to be alright__...move in with me...you're not going to die...if you will allow me to turn you."_

The healing process hurt a lot less than he had anticipated. The bandages on his neck came off two weeks later, and John found himself standing in front of his bathroom mirror, running a finger lightly on the new scars on his neck and feeling a shiver run through him that was not exactly of revulsion.

_Just remember to breathe, John._

The memory came from nowhere, those words whispered into his ear as Sherlock took possession of him, and John felt the long, slow burn of desire that pulsed through his loins. He rested his forehead on the cool, smooth surface of the mirror, and did as the memory bid—breathing in and out, slowly, in and out, as he wrestled with himself.

He stayed that way for a long time.

* * *

With very little recourse, John tried to resume his normal routine.

He rose in the mornings, ate a dull breakfast and set off for work. In the evenings, he returned to an empty flat and set about making a brief dinner to be eaten in front of the telly, or his laptop. Afterward, he busied himself with a book or going online, trying to kill the vast, empty hours before bed, trying as best he could not to _think,_ because then he would realize that he was waiting.

Waiting for _him._

He tried not to look at his mobile every few seconds to check for messages in the same way he tried to keep himself from refreshing Sherlock's website on his laptop, hoping for a new entry, for any sign that Sherlock was out there, somewhere. Sherlock had not updated his site in over two weeks, and John's phone remained silent. What remained of his tattered pride forbade John to look up Sherlock's number from his text messages and simply hit the redial button, though he'd thought of it. He'd thought of it long and hard.

_Fucking hell_, thought John, exasperated with himself. _This is worse than falling in love._

It took him a horrified moment to realize exactly what had just gone through his mind. He'd not meant it. Not that way, not really. Or did he?

He had not yet been turned, but John knew that he was no longer the same man as before. He had changed. He did not need his colleagues' reaction to his appearance on the day he reported back to work to tell him that; how they had treated him with sympathetic shunning ever since. His life had fundamentally, irrevocably changed from the moment he met Sherlock. Before long he would not know himself, and what frightened John the most was the newly awakened part of him that whispered back in dark delight: _good riddance._

The queasy feeling of excitement was entirely unexpected, even shocking in its intensity as it clawed at John. He could not believe that Sherlock was serious with his offer to turn him, but the thing inside him, pervasive and urgent, could not be denied.

Was it even possible to turn someone past the age of thirty? John almost wanted it— wanted the adventure that Sherlock seemed to promise; that feeling of coming alive under Sherlock's touch. It was too good to be true, which meant that it probably wasn't. He'd heard all about the process of turning, of course, and fat chance it was ever going to be offered to the likes of him. It was reserved only for the best and the brightest among the herd: either one did brilliantly with the national exams when one turned eighteen, or one was somehow beautiful or stunning enough to captivate a vampire so thoroughly that one was not simply bled out and cast aside by the fiends in the secret floors. In short, one had to be outstanding, and that— if John were to be brutally honest with himself— was one description that he'd never heard people use when they spoke of him; which had him wondering endlessly what Sherlock ever saw in him, in the first place. And why was Sherlock keeping his distance now? It had been almost three weeks since their last rendezvous. Perhaps he was already having second thoughts.

Or perhaps he already had someone else. Perhaps there were others besides him, John.

_Fucking hell. Listen to yourself_, John thought, running a hand wearily over his face. _Just fucking listen to yourself._

He tried to conjure the old sense of distaste, of distrust, whenever he thought of vampires, and he found to his relief that he could still feel these things for the creatures; just not for Sherlock. For Sherlock, he felt something...alarmingly different. It was not something he'd ever expected, this feeling of existing in a perpetual void his entire life and experiencing that grey haze lift, for the first time, to reveal that something in this painfully circumscribed life could be so interesting.

Of course, in more lucid moments, when the sun was high in the sky and there was work to occupy him, John could wrap a semblance of sense and resolution around himself like a cloak, but when night came and he was all alone in his flat, exhausted by his efforts to appease his body's raging and insatiable desires and struggling to sleep, the thought always came back to nag at him: _where is Sherlock?_

Despite his resolution not to seek Sherlock out, things slowly got the better of him. He wondered for how much longer he could keep this up. If he did not know any better, he would say that he was _pining_. It was so ridiculous that John finally decided that enough was enough.

It was Friday night, and he was going out. Not that he would be looking for Sherlock, oh no, and never mind that he'd not made plans with friends— he didn't really have a lot of those. The last time he'd been out with a friend for dinner was months ago, with his old mate Mike Stamford, who worked as a hematologist at Bart's. He remembered dropping by the hospital to visit Mike in his lab early one evening, only to find that one of Mike's vampire colleagues was already there, working. At the sound of the cold, patrician voice asking Mike for his phone, John had shut himself off and beaten a hasty retreat. He'd not even bothered to look properly at the creature, merely registering him as a lean, black-and-white figure, seated at the far end of the room before John slid his gaze away quickly and whispered to Mike that he would be waiting for him in the hospital lounge. An entire lifetime of restrictions had honed John's sense of self-protection, and this was his way of dealing with anything potentially unpleasant- banish them from the periphery of his vision to the back of his mind, pronto.

Now, John wondered whether he ought to give Mike a call but decided it was too abrupt. Mike was probably still working. It did not matter. He just needed some air. He did not need to be around people. Even a solitary stroll around the neighborhood would be fine.

He was almost a block away from his flat when the first of the public payphones he passed by began to ring.

* * *

John had walked by three phone booths before he was convinced that the ringing phones were not a coincidence. He'd passed by the first one without giving it a thought, and he'd stared at the second ringing phone until some curious passerby decided to step in to answer the call, whereby the ringing abruptly ceased. Now here was the third ringing phone right in front of him, on the junction of a busy street. John glanced around him before he stepped into the booth and cautiously lifted the headpiece.

"Hello?"

"Finally," sighed a cultured male voice, entirely unfamiliar to John.

John cleared his throat, at a loss as to how to proceed, but before he could do so, the voice continued, "there is a security camera to your left. Do you see it?"

John frowned. "Who's this? Who is speaking?"

"Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?"

John glanced outside and saw one of the ubiquitous cctv cameras perched on the upper ledge of a nearby building with its lenses aimed at him. "Yeah."

"Watch."

John did as he was told, mystified, and watched the camera swivel away.

The man on the phone continued, "there is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"

John turned just in time to see the camera mentioned swinging away from his direction.

"And finally, at the top of the building to your right."

John watched as the street surveillance outside changed course, turning him invisible from scrutiny for the time being. He spoke warily into the phone, ""How are you doing this?"

_And why?_

As though reading his mind, the caller said, "get into the car, Doctor Watson."

John stared as a black car pulled in smoothly from the traffic to stop at the curb outside his phone booth. The door of the car automatically swung open, revealing a fraction of the posh, lighted interior as John debated on what to do next. He supposed he could make a run for it, though if this situation was what he thought it was, he wouldn't get far, probably just down the street before he was apprehended. A summons was a summons, whether the car was a bulky, military-style van arriving in the dead of night or a sleek, elegant Jaguar stopping to pick him up at a busy street intersection on a Friday evening.

There was very little option to choose from, so John emerged from the phone booth and gingerly got into the waiting car.

* * *

Of course, there had to be a beautiful woman sitting beside him, typing away on her phone. Ever since Sherlock, John found that he was quickly getting used to the surreal.

She did not look like a vampire. In the dim light of the car's interior, John tried not to look at her neck, which was partially hidden by her long, dark hair. What did it matter if John could not see any fang marks? It was obvious enough that the woman was a servant, which meant she was in the process of being turned. One had to be, if one were sent by vampires to do their bidding.

John could feel a thin thread of hysteria weaving through his thoughts, but it was not enough for him to forget his manners. Casually, as though he were seated at a park bench and not inside a strange car whisking him away to God knows where, he said to the woman, "hello."

"Hi," she replied readily enough, her gaze glued to her phone.

A heartbeat or two later, John asked, "so what's your name, then?"

The woman smiled but did not look up. "Erm...Anthea."

"That's not your real name, is it?"

The smile widened a fraction. "No."

There was still no eye contact. Feeling slightly foolish, John said, "I'm John."

"Yes, I know."

Of course.

"Any point in asking where I'm going?"

"Not at all..." The woman finally glanced at him, the smile tugging at the corners of her lips turning sympathetic. "...John."

God, he was so _fucked._

* * *

In no time at all, they arrived at a warehouse on the outskirts of the City. A typical location, John supposed. He could feel himself bristle with tension.

"He's over there," Anthea said, nodding at a distant figure that John could barely make out through the tinted car window beside him.

John opened the car door and stepped outside. He suppressed a shiver that was not due to the cold of the warehouse. This set-up was all too familiar and reminiscent of the midnight interrogation that he had endured over Harry, except that the man a few paces away was overdressed and insouciantly leaning his weight upon a neatly folded umbrella. There was a chair in front of him.

_No_, John thought. _Not a man._

The vampire smiled as John made his approach and gestured at the chair. "Have a seat, John," he said in the same cultured voice that John had heard on the phone.

"You know, I've got a phone." John's voice came out sounding all right. He was glad. "I mean, you're very clever and all that, but...erm, you could just phone me. I'm pretty sure you know my number."

There was no way John was going to give ground this early in the game by doing as he was told. He ignored the chair and continued to gaze steadily at the well-groomed and over-bred creature before him.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place."

John felt a stirring at the base of his stomach upon hearing the name. Sherlock. Of course, this had something to do with Sherlock. What had the git been up to?

John waited, tense, but the vampire took his time. He merely repeated his invitation: "Sit, please, John."

The words were polite but firm, and so was John's reply, "no, thank you."

It was clear the vampire was not used to being rebuffed. There was a short pause as he regarded John thoughtfully. "You don't seem very afraid."

The words were out of his mouth before John could stop himself, "you don't seem very frightening."

His companion laughed. "Ah, I see now why he likes you."

John frowned.

"You're very brave, aren't you, John?" The vampire continued, gazing at him. "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

John felt a muscle working in his jaw, but he kept his mouth shut. The vampire's expression had shuttered as he asked bluntly, "has Sherlock Holmes really offered to turn you?"

The question caught John by surprise. He did not know why it should, but it did. "He...he's..."

The vampire raised his brows and politely waited for John's answer.

"Who are you?" John asked instead.

"An interested party."

"You're interested in Sherlock. Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has?"

John wasn't sure whether he ought to tell this busybody that he actually knew next to nothing about Sherlock, but it seemed the vampire had seen the confirmation on his face, for he continued, "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having. And then one day, seemingly out of the blue, he asked to have you."

John blinked. "What?" he said slowly, carefully.

"For his birthday, on the sixth of January. You were his 'present' in lieu of the knighthood he has eschewed, twice. He's never asked for anyone before— certainly not a human person. And now suddenly there's all this business about turning you. Tell me, will there be a happy announcement at the end of the week?"

The vampire seemed genuinely puzzled, and John could not blame him. He could not make heads or tails with what he'd just heard himself. He tried to pull back the threads of their conversation just before he lost his way: "Wait. So you're... his friend."

Another laugh. "Oh, no. Not in the usual sense, anyway. If you ask him, he'd probably say I'm an enemy."

"An enemy?"

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask Sherlock, he'd probably say I'm his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

"Well, thank God _you're_ above all that," said John, pointedly glancing at the vast expanse of the warehouse around him.

He was rewarded with a frown, but before they could both continue, John's phone suddenly pinged.

Three weeks of silence from Sherlock, and suddenly: _Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. -SH_

"I hope I'm not distracting you."

"Not distracting me at all," John murmured, making sure to look up unhurriedly from his phone.

"Will you let him turn you?" There was a certain quality to the vampire's gaze that John did not like very much. "I hardly think anyone would ever think to turn down such an... opportunity."

_How did he even know I've not accepted Sherlock's offer?_

John was careful to keep his voice casual as he replied, "I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business."

"It _could_ be."

"It really couldn't."

The vampire reached into his coat and removed a small, leather-bound notebook. "If you decide to accept Sherlock's offer and move into two hundred and twenty-one-B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money to ease your way."

Startled, John said, "What?" _Move into _where? "Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy man."

"In exchange for what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet," the vampire said smoothly. "Nothing you'd feel...uncomfortable sharing. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?"

"I worry about him. Constantly." There was that look again on the vampire's face that John found incomprehensible— as incomprehensible as the vampire's words.

John searched for something to say, and opted for more sarcasm. "That's very nice of you."

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship."

John's phone pinged again. Sherlock was proving to be loquacious this evening: _Could be dangerous._

"No," he found himself saying to the vampire before him.

"But I've not mentioned a figure."

"Don't bother."

"You are very loyal _very _quickly," observed the vampire in a tone that made John realize that in all this time, while they were talking, the vampire had been examining him, collecting data and learning all there was to know about him.

He was being probed.

"No, I'm not," John found himself saying as he resisted the urge to take a step back. "I'm just not interested."

"Aren't you?" The words were soft and full of meaning.

Before John could say anything, the vampire looked down at his notebook again. "Trust issues, it says in your official psychological profile, among other things," he said. He glanced back up at John from under his brows. "Trust me, there's a whole lot more there that makes for interesting reading, beginning with that spot of bother in your teens and a father who disappeared. You don't take to people easily, much less our kind. Yet Sherlock saw something in you, or else he would not bother; and could it be that despite everything, you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes as well?"

"Who says I trust him?" John countered, genuinely taken aback. He could feel the hairs on his nape stand on end. So they really knew all about him. He did not know why it came as a surprise, and the vampire was clearly adept at twisting words around.

"The cctv coverage of you has been most...interesting."

"Are we done?"

"You tell me." The vampire made to turn away, then stopped. "I expect that we shall be seeing more of each other again soon. I do hope that you would have reconsidered my offer by then. You will find that it will be for the best, for everyone involved."

* * *

When he finally got to the car, the woman calling herself Anthea said, "I'm to take you home."

"No," said John. "Take me to Baker Street."

The interview had unnerved him more than he cared to admit. Before tonight, he never even knew Sherlock's address.

He knew now.

It had been almost three weeks since their last rendezvous— three weeks in which Sherlock had kept John at arm's length. The beast within him, so long held in check, arose with unbridled anticipation at their next meeting. There were so many questions he needed to ask, so many things he had to know.

Yet there was a final act to the farce that had been playing out all night long. When John finally got to 221B Baker Street, there was only Sherlock's landlady to meet him.

"He's gone out," Mrs. Hudson said, "but he did ask me to let you in."

* * *

Baker Street was located in that quarter of the City that the vampires had made their own, which meant that it was a quiet, well-tended neighborhood with good buildings that looked venerable on the outside and with sturdy, special windows equipped with filters to block the sun's harmful UV rays.

"He says to make yourself comfortable, Dr. Watson," continued Mrs. Hudson helpfully as John stepped into Sherlock's flat.

Whatever John had been expecting, he'd not anticipated Sherlock's flat to look like a typical bachelor's apartment, slightly disheveled when it came to the papers on the desk and the magazines stacked on the floor, but otherwise kept in proper order. The fire had been kept burning in the grate, and there were two armchairs by the fireside. John's gaze ranged slowly about the room, settling briefly on the tinted windows and the leather sofa at the other end, as Mrs. Hudson bustled in with a tea tray.

"Thank you. That's… very kind of you," John said as he eyed the tea things.

"He might be a while," said Mrs. Hudson almost apologetically. "He does like to dash about, but you're more the quiet type, I can see."

John pushed aside the sinking feeling within him and said to Mrs. Hudson, "you take tea."

"Of course." Mrs. Hudson seemed surprised by John's words.

"So…you're not…" John made a vague gesture around his neck.

Mrs. Hudson gave a small tinkle of a laugh. "I'm well along my years, dear. Between what I have in my veins and liquid detergent, I think he might prefer to drink the latter," she said. She retreated, closing the door on John before he could think to ask further questions.

* * *

Curiouser and curiouser.

John sat on the more comfortable of the armchairs by the fire, contemplating Sherlock's living room as he tried to haul in the thoughts which threatened to run amok in his head.

He'd been invited over to Sherlock's abode (that this was his first visit was not lost on John), only to find him gone. And it seemed that Sherlock had a human housekeeper.

What did it all mean?

_Obviously, he's playing with you._

That thought, sharp with resentment and suspicion, warred with an excited, almost jubilant, _I'm here. I'm actually here, in Sherlock's flat._

Try as he might, he could not stop himself from feeling the curiosity that pulled at him from all directions. The beast within him was awake and sniffing the air. He waited until he was sure that Mrs. Hudson's footsteps had faded from the stairs before he launched himself from his chair to snoop.

John had absolutely no idea what vampires were like in the privacy of their homes. He'd expected something_ weird_, an elegant little chamber of horror, perhaps, yet aside from the human skull on the mantelpiece, everything was quite understated: a vast selection of books on the shelves, papers strewn everywhere, a glass cabinet with some curios and science specimens. The few pieces of scattered furniture were made from sturdy, authentic dark wood and the florid wallpaper was old-fashioned; doubtless it was expensive, as were the lamps and the thick Persian carpet beneath John's feet that muffled his steps.

John glanced around, relieved and almost disappointed to find no traces of a massacre anywhere, before turning his attention to the kitchen.

Ah, the kitchen, which was probably more likely to give out clues of Sherlock and his appetites, yet John was surprised to find a high-grade microscope taking pride of place on the small table, cluttered with beakers and glass instruments. He eyed the refrigerator with its chrome surfaces and quiet hum. What lay within its interiors? A severed head? Body parts? At the very least, there must be pints of blood stashed away inside, given that Sherlock had not fed from him for over three weeks.

John backed away from the fridge, deciding he didn't want to know its contents, after all.

He was back in the living room when he saw the narrow, dark passageway that led to the back of the flat. The thought arose, unbidden: _he has to sleep somewhere._

John could feel the thumping of his heart as he made his way slowly along the corridor, with the bathroom to its left and another door, resolutely closed, at the end. He could tell that this door was it. He licked his lips as he contemplated the knob, then slowly, he reached out a hand towards it. If he thought the door would be locked, or difficult to open, with melodramatically creaking hinges, he was proven wrong yet again.

The door opened easily and silently enough, revealing a sliver of dimly lit interiors.

_Now,_ thought John, his heart in his throat. Now was the time for a slender white hand to flash out and grab onto his wrist to pull him into the room, with the door conveniently banging shut behind him.

Yet again, nothing happened. The door swung inward to reveal a lamplit, unoccupied bedroom. John eyed the bed with its dark, wooden headboard and creamy sheets with a mounting sense of confusion and, yes, outrage.

What was the point of Sherlock's invitation if he wasn't even here to meet him?

John stood at the threshold of Sherlock's bedroom, flexing and unflexing his hands as he struggled to contain his disappointment.

He ought to just leave. He knew that, yet he knew that he would never be able to bring himself to do it. His pride was no match for the thrall that held him captive. Sherlock knew this, too, of course. Everything had been calculated, right down to bringing John over and abandoning him to sift through his apartment. John could not understand him; he could not begin to understand his ways, including Sherlock's baffling decision to choose him, of all people. And for what?

Very well, then. He would stay. He'd come this far and he would stay until Sherlock came back. It was only later that he realized that he should have been afraid.

* * *

He'd fallen asleep.

It was so anticlimactic, but he must have dozed off sometime after two in the morning— he distinctly remembered the time when he'd last checked his phone, perhaps for the millionth time that night. Sometime after midnight, he'd caved in and texted Sherlock, who had never answered back, and finally, John had fallen asleep on the comfortable armchair in front of the dwindling fire.

Now he came abruptly awake as he felt himself being lowered onto a smooth, firm surface. For a confused moment, he could see nothing but shadows all around, with a darker shape looming over him.

Instantly, John felt his body tense, his hand shooting out and encountering the rough wool of Sherlock's finely made coat, still cold and a little damp from outside. If Sherlock felt John's alarm, he gave no sign of it. He merely stretched and settled down partly on top of John, placing his head on John's chest, like a giant cat. John's legs were pinned beneath Sherlock's torso. He felt Sherlock shift again and finally grow heavy as he relaxed onto John. Any moment now and Sherlock might start purring.

A moment passed in which John's heartbeat was loud in his ears. Then, he said in a tightly controlled voice, "I can't breathe, Sherlock."

Sherlock lifted his head briefly and shifted it a different angle on John's chest. "Tired," he merely said, his voice a low rumble of sound, vibrating through John.

He was here, at last.

Now was the time for John to ask questions, if only he could remember them. Sherlock's proximity was making it difficult to string two thoughts together, let alone words. Before he could open his mouth, John's attention was caught by the sudden glow of a mobile phone screen situated a little bit below his prone form. Sherlock had begun to type out a text message with one hand even as he continued to lie on top of John's chest.

"Hey, that's my phone!" John exclaimed.

"Mine's dead," replied Sherlock as he continued calmly to type into the mobile. After a moment, he tossed it over to John. "Here. Thank you."

John fumbled with the phone and resisted the urge to take a fistful of the dark curls so near his fingers. Instead, he craned his neck, trying to get his bearings as he scanned his surroundings. For a moment he thought Sherlock might have carried him into his bedroom, yet they were in such narrow, cramped quarters, and John could see tall, curtained windows a few feet away with a slash of gray dawn filtered through their tinted surfaces. Living room. They were still in Sherlock's living room, both of them were sprawled on the sofa that could barely fit one person, let alone two. His hand fumbled for the lamp that must be within reach. He found the switch, and warm, rosy light filled his vision, making him squint. He was just in time to see Sherlock look up, his skin the colour of warm ivory and he was close enough for John to see the pupils in those pale eyes constricting in the sudden flood of light.

"Where've you been?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Out on a case."

"A case," repeated John, frowning.

"Initially, I thought I'd bring you along."

John was careful to keep his voice neutral: "Why did you change your mind?"

"Because it could have got too dangerous for you," Sherlock replied. "I've not fed beforehand."

The answer was entirely unexpected. It felt like a stab through the heart as the words sank in. He could smell the faint, metallic whiff of a blood meal on Sherlock's breath and he was suddenly, illogically angry.

Stupidly enough, he'd assumed that Sherlock would content himself with blood packs in the fridge; he'd not thought that Sherlock would derive his nourishment from fresh prey as he, John, recovered from his visitations. He'd been so caught up with Sherlock, so enthralled by his extraordinary attention that it had not occurred to John that he was probably not the only person bound to this particular vampire.

Sherlock's cut-glass accent deepened into a drawl as he queried, "problem?"

John shook his head stubbornly. "What makes you think there's a problem?"

"Oh, I don't know; only that your heart's suddenly about to burst out of your chest."

"There is no problem," John said brusquely, trying and failing to dislodge Sherlock from him. "You're not the only one who's had an interesting evening. I just met a friend of yours."

"Friend?" Sherlock sounded incredulous.

"An enemy."

"Oh." John could feel Sherlock relaxing back onto him. "Which one?"

"Your arch-enemy, according to him." Despite his anger, John could not help being a little intrigued.

There was a sudden glint in Sherlock's eyes as he studied John. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity. It's the least you can do to inconvenience him. Take it from him next time."

"Who is he?"

"The most dangerous being you've ever met and not my problem right now. Have you thought it through?"

"Thought what through?"

"My proposal."

That reminded John that he was angry with Sherlock. "Who did you feed from tonight?" he asked abruptly. It had come out before he could stop himself.

"Ah," Sherlock said, his voice turning sly.

John hated the thrall, hated the words tumbling out of his mouth, the beast within him breaking though his control. "How many of us are you actually seeing, stashed away in one secret floor or another?"

"Why, John," Sherlock said, and this time his voice actually came out sounding like a purr. "You don't mean to tell me you actually _care?"_

"No, I'm j— _what the hell are you doing?"_

John's exasperated tone quickly evaporated as he felt a hand slide down his stomach. He began to struggle in earnest as he felt fingers deftly working on his belt buckle.

"So you _do_ care. I'm touched," whispered Sherlock. " We can do it now, you know. It might be a bit too soon, and we're not on a secret floor assignation, but if we're careful—"

John resisted the effect of Sherlock's hand on his clothed erection and ground out, "why me?"

Sherlock spared him the agony of elaborating as he drawled, "my dear John. Why not you?"

_Because these things don't happen to me. Before you came along, nothing ever happened to me._

John couldn't say it, of course, because of everything it implied. What Sherlock meant to John— it was too weird, too alarming to be put into words; a jagged, brilliant thing that tore at John's heart and mind.

John felt Sherlock's hand move over him again and he felt his thoughts rapidly deserting him. He was tired of fighting it, fighting himself. For a moment, he almost gave in, but then he remembered what he'd meant to ask. He mustered enough distaste to show in his voice as he said, "I was supposed to be your _birthday present?"_

"Hmm. Birthday, yes. Birthdays are boring without a proper present."

"He said something about your never asking for anyone before." It did not come out well. It sounded too hopeful. John did not know what to make of the contradictions staring him in the face, and Sherlock had made it clear that he was not going to help. He'd done away with John's belt buckle and had pulled down John's trousers before John could think to hold Sherlock off, before he could twist away.

_"_Look, I— _don't."_ Spoken in that tone, it was nowhere near convincing, not even to John.

"Don't you?" Sherlock's voice was teasing as he closed his fingers around John's shaft. "Yet I recall saying it could be dangerous, and here you are."

"We...we can't," breathed John. "Not outside a secret floor— _Sherlock!"_

John felt his protests dissolve at the feel of Sherlock's mouth enveloping his cock in a warm, wet prison. He gasped as Sherlock bent down to take in his entire length, coating it generously with saliva before drawing back up in one long, leisurely glide that had John arching helplessly into Sherlock's mouth.

Then quite suddenly the delicious contact was gone as Sherlock eased his mouth off John's prick after one, last suction around the head— the sound of it surprisingly loud in the quiet confines of the flat, and filthy_._

John shoved a fist into his mouth to keep his startled objection from bursting forth. He froze as he felt Sherlock move in, his lips close to John's ear.

"Kiss me, John." Sherlock's voice was honeyed, as persuasive as his hand moving slowly over John's moistened shaft.

There was that, again.

John threw back his head and groaned aloud as he tried to shut out that voice. He was so close. Once again, he'd lost his way with his arguments as he felt his body yield to Sherlock's will. He tried to tell himself that this didn't matter— the flesh was inherently weak, but the battle did not lie there. A few more strokes and he let his body go, giving in and spilling onto Sherlock's fingers. Yet his gaze was fierce as he opened his eyes to regard Sherlock.

"After you've had me," John said, his voice flat, "then what?"

Beats of silence as they stared at each other as desire cooled and seeped away.

"How many have there been before me before they were discarded?"

"You don't believe me, then," Sherlock sighed as he pulled away. "Still so stubborn, like the first time we met. I suppose it matters very little that you've got no choice in the matter."

"Why can't you just tell me?"

"You know your way out, John."

John stared in disbelief as Sherlock abruptly got up and walked away. A minute later, he heard the sound of Sherlock's bedroom door closing at the far end of the flat.

It took a small eternity for him to sit up, to do something about his state of dishevelment. Already, he felt the acute sense of loss— deeply, achingly familiar— digging in. Self-castigation was already settling in. He couldn't believe what he'd just done. Was he mad? Yet for the first time, he realized that he actually wanted something from Sherlock. He wanted only one thing, and it was not something that Sherlock was likely to give him.

He must leave. Now. Or else he might find himself outside Sherlock's door, begging to be let in and mindlessly agreeing to Sherlock's conditions as he set about turning John into his creature.

John surprised himself when he finally stood up and took a leaden step, then another, and another, until he reached the door that would lead him downstairs.

The sun was already rising when he let himself out of Sherlock's flat. The street outside was empty and all the houses were shuttered. Everything was shrouded in a thin mist that played tricks on the mind's eye along with the early morning light. John imagined Sherlock emerging from that mist as he strode towards home barely an hour ago, his figure tall and dark and his coat swirling about him. John turned one last time to glance at the building behind him, at the thick, heavily tinted windows of Sherlock's rooms above his head, as he told himself that by emerging intact from his latest encounter with Sherlock, he'd actually won a little victory, even though it did not feel like it.

Perhaps it was the mist, or wishful thinking— a powerful remnant of Sherlock's hold over him— yet, for a moment, John thought he saw the curtains flutter faintly through the windows upstairs. An illusion, he decided, which was about as real as the fancy daydream he'd woven around Sherlock's reason to turn him.

* * *

It took another day for John's resolution to crack.

He was a fool— a complete idiot. Oh, what had he done? Nothing much, except he'd merely turned down the one offer that other people would kill for on the basis of some muddled principle of staying true to oneself.

He'd not been thinking straight inside Sherlock's flat. Despite the overpowering force of the thrall, he'd clung on to a set of obsolete scruples, and for what? What would others care except for the opportunity of being turned? But no, John had to want something _more._ Something unattainable.

It was clear that he was going mad, and when he got back home, everything was made worse by the realization that he had the entire weekend to dwell in his misery.

_This evening_, he thought as he lay curled into a tight ball on his bed, not bothering with breakfast or lunch and feeling colder than he ought to be. Tonight, he was going back, and he'd beg Sherlock to take him, if it came to that.

Yet the afternoon was barely done when he heard his doorbell ring. The caller would not go away, and when John finally answered the door, the lines of his face pulled into a dark scowl, he was surprised to find Anthea, smartly dressed as always, with a tart expression on her face and a suit bag slung over her shoulder. She had also brought along an RSVP invitation to a cocktail party laid out in a gilt edged card inside a heavy, cream envelope.

Attached to the card was a note paper from the desk of one Mycroft Holmes, with the words elegantly scrawled across the expensive stationery making the hairs on John's arms stand on end: _It is apparent that my brother has not been successful in convincing you, Dr. Watson. Time is not on your side, therefore, please allow me to help you make up your mind. I look forward to seeing you tonight. Sherlock will also be attending. _

_P.S. Kindly leave your collar undone until I've seen you._

* * *

The name of the establishment where John was dropped off was entirely unfamiliar— The Diogenes Club.

He'd not wanted to come, not when he'd been issued a threat in the guise of an invite, and he had gone to the length of calling the phone number on the invitation to decline, but here he was at the stroke of eight.

"Ah, Dr. Watson," Mycroft Holmes said as he advanced smoothly into the room into which one of the valets had deposited John. "So glad you can join us, after all."

_As if I can refuse_, John thought resentfully. He kept his chin up, but he was unable to muster a retort now that he knew who this person was. Needless to say, the shock had been great when John first saw his name on the note paper.

Mycroft stopped a few paces away from John, surveying him with a quick glance from head to foot and back. The vampire had a pleasant smile, his face arranged in placid lines. He looked almost friendly except for those eyes, which were of a darker shade of blue than Sherlock's but so much colder, critically assessing as he ran his gaze over John.

John could do nothing to curb the acceleration of his heartbeat, the quickening of his pulse, blood thrumming through his veins and warming his face in a light flush. He was sure these physiological changes were not lost on the being standing before him, yet his face was his own and he had full control over his expression. He kept his gaze steady and resolute as he returned Mycroft's look. The strike was coming any minute now.

Yet Mycroft's smile merely widened in approval as he said, ""The evening clothes become you."

"The collar—"

"Yes, thank you for not doing up the collar as I asked. I do have my reasons, as you shall see. I'm sure Sherlock will approve, if he bothers to turn up. I did mention to him that you were coming."

John paused as the words sank in and he fought the dismay that threatened to rise_. So he may not even be here…_

"Oh, and before I forget." Before John could even react, Mycroft was suddenly in his space, stepping up to him and fastening the thing around John's neck before John could think to pull away. John had not even seen it in Mycroft's hands. He'd never seen them move like this, so fast and sure.

It was a collar. It was a fucking metal collar, two or three fingers thick, cold and heavy against John's skin as it encircled his neck snugly.

"Consider it as protection, Dr. Watson," Mycroft explained as he stepped away. He was already moving towards the door. "You've not even been initiated into the process of turning, and this is your first invitation to a drinking party among our kind. We wouldn't want any accidents to happen now, would we? Think of all the drama when Sherlock learns that somebody else has claimed you for their own tonight."

Mycroft paused by the door and glanced back at John, who stood unmoving at the center of the room, one hand on his throat. "You can do up your collar now, John."


End file.
